


Convenient Comfort

by McKay



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: BSG, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/McKay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two broken men find a much needed release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convenient Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006. This is entirely AU, set shortly after KLG2. It's the first "straight men have gay sex" story I've written. It's also the first non-HP fanfiction story I've written in years!

When Helo approached the entrance to the locker room and saw the guard standing by the door, he knew who was inside. It wasn't always the same guard, but that didn't matter; they all knew what the presence of a guard, armed and at attention, outside a room meant.

He had to give Colonel Tigh credit for fighting against the inevitable. Starbuck had flat-out refused to accept the CAG position, saying she had enough responsibility as the fleet's only flight instructor without adding the role of CAG on top of that. Rumor had it for a while that Tigh intended to approach someone else, perhaps even force a promotion on them, and there was a tacit agreement that none of them would accept, in spite of the consequences.

Not all of the pilots were in agreement with what Apollo had done; some believed that it had been mutinous while others argued Commander Adama didn't have the legal right to arrest the President to begin with. But Adama was clinging to life by his fingernails, and one of their own had been identified as a Cylon; in the face of all that, military vs. civilian politics didn't much matter. The number of pilots dwindled with each new Cylon attack, and the survivors banded together in a tight knit group, protecting their own. Not to mention, neither they nor the flight deck crew had much love for Tigh, which made the decision to support their CAG that much easier.

There wasn't anyone else left with the rank or experience left to do the job anyway, and the fleet needed every available pilot desperately, thus Tigh was left with little choice but to release Apollo from the brig, but he did so on the condition that Apollo was accompanied by an armed guard at all times. He was also forbidden access to the Vipers until an attack, which meant no visits to the Colonial One. It was a petty humiliation which Tigh knew would sting worse than being in the brig; at least no one could see Apollo there unless they made a point of visiting him, but seeing a guard trailing him everywhere he went on the ship was a not-so-subtle reminder that he was in disgrace.

After being on the run for so long, Helo's priorities had shifted; he didn't much care whether whether Adama was within his rights to arrest Roslin or not, or whether Roslin had gone batshit insane. He'd seen the ruins of Caprica, had walked the desolate streets of Caprica City, had watched the world wither and die as he fought to survive. What he cared about now was the fact that the Cylons looked like them, that the Cylons had infiltrated their ranks, and that if they didn't find a safe haven where the Cylons couldn't find them, it would be the end of humanity. As far as Helo was concerned, mutiny and insanity were small potatoes in comparison, and he'd far rather have Apollo in the cockpit of a Viper than in the brig.

So it was easy for him to stroll into the locker room and greet Apollo, who was clad in only a towel as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, with a casual nod-and-wave before heading to his locker, his old locker, no less. He'd been surprised to find that it hadn't been reassigned to one of the nuggets, but considering how many pilots they'd lost, he guessed they hadn't needed the space, and everyone had more important things on their mind than cleaning out his mildewy towels and the pile of dull razors he'd tossed in the back.

Apollo nodded tersely, keeping his eyes averted. Someone who didn't know better might take it as rudeness, but Helo saw the tightening of that sharp jaw and the studied blankness of those features. Apollo wasn't as good at hiding his feelings as he wanted to be. He tried, Lords of Kobol bless him, but it was there. Helo remembered the last time he'd seen Apollo, in the ready room prior to the decommissioning ceremony. Apollo's diplomatic words about the honor he was being accorded had been belied by the bitter edge of his voice, and now, the careful neutrality of his expression was belied by the haunted look in his pale eyes.

The man was on edge, and small wonder. Helo knew all about that edge; he'd been living there for weeks on Caprica, and it hadn't blunted since returning to the Galactica thanks to the nightmares about half-mechanical infants crawling toward him, surrounding him.

"How's the old man?" Helo kept his wording neutral, as if speaking to any other pilot, not Adama's son. He figured those wounds didn't need more salt; Tigh had that covered well enough. "Any change?"

"No." Apollo's fingers clenched in the folds of the undershirt he held. "Not that _I've_ heard anyway." More bitterness, the subtle inflection telling Helo all he needed to know.

If the world had been different, he might have said, "It's going to be okay." And a few months ago, those words might have meant something, might have offered the hope that you'd move past whatever bad thing had happened and have time to grieve and heal before the foundation of your world was rocked again. But there was nothing that was okay anymore. How could it be? There were less than fifty thousand humans left, gods knew how many Cylons, and some of them had _her_ face. There was no comfort to be found in this nightmare world they'd been plunged into, nothing that lasted. All any of them had left was the fleeting comfort of a moment, a little respite to tide them over until the next blow fell.

He couldn't say anything was going to be okay, not anymore, but he _could_ offer a respite.

Before he was consciously aware of what he intended to do, Helo was in motion, crossing the room, plucking the undershirt from Apollo's hands and tossing it back in Apollo's locker.

"What--?" Apollo's eyes widened, his startled gaze flying up to Helo's face, and he watched with confusion in his eyes as Helo reached behind him and snagged a bottle of lotion. "Helo!" Confusion shifted to shock, and his mouth worked like a fish out of water as Helo slipped his fingers beneath Apollo's towel and stripped it away, letting it fall to the floor.

"Look." Helo explained patiently, as he might to a small child. "You're tense. You've got every reason to be -- I'm not saying you don't -- but you've got to do something about it. I'd let you beat the frak out of me, but that kind of release won't help. Believe me, I've tried," he said wryly. He'd spent more time than he cared to admit trying to pummel out his anger on punching bags and sparring partners alike, and all it did was make him tired.

"There are a lot of people who could fall apart, and it wouldn't matter," he continued, his tone matter-of-fact as he flipped open the bottle's lid. "You aren't one of them. You aren't expendable. So either you find a release, or you keep on bottling it up until you bust something in your brain, and we lose our CAG and one of our best pilots."

Apollo's cheeks were flushed, and he averted his gaze as he pressed back against the lockers. "It doesn't have to be you."

"You see anyone else volunteering?"

The flush deepened, and a faint scowl passed over Apollo's features, and Helo belatedly realized he'd been a little too tactless. Apollo was a great pilot, but when it came to making emotional connections with people, well, he had trouble navigating that territory, and Helo couldn't imagine Apollo unbending enough to take the initiative to invite someone to his bed just for a night.

"I'm not saying they wouldn't," he amended in a conciliatory tone. "Just... I'm here, I see the problem, and I'm willing to help without you having to ask. Convenient, huh?" He grinned to take the edge off the tension thrumming between them, and Apollo mustered a tiny half-smile in return, finally glancing up at him again.

"Very."

For a long moment, Apollo simply looked at him, brows drawing together as he searched Helo's face; Helo didn't know what he was looking for, but whatever it was must have been there, because he gave a little nod, his expression turning to one of determination, as if he'd reached a decision. Drawing in a deep breath, as if bracing himself, Apollo clasped Helo's free hand, turning it palm up, and took the bottle from his other hand, upending it and squeezing out a dollop of lotion into Helo's palm.

Helo took back the bottle and put it aside, and Apollo let his head fall back as Helo lowered his hand, curling his fingers around Apollo's cock which, surprisingly, wasn't completely flaccid. Apollo let out a soft hiss as Helo coaxed him to full hardness with long, slow strokes of his slick fingers, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut; Helo supposed he was trying to forget it was a man touching him and giving him pleasure.

But Helo kept his gaze trained raptly on Apollo's face, watching the play of pleasure across his features. Helo didn't want to close his eyes and forget. Didn't want to close his eyes and remember.

He moved, closing the remaining distance between them and clasping Apollo's bicep; he could feel the heat rising from Apollo's shower-damp skin, could hear Apollo's breathing quicken in response to the rhythm of his hand, could hear his own breathing hitch, and somehow, breathing through his nose wasn't enough anymore, and he parted his lips, drawing deeper gulps of air into his starved lungs.

The world dwindled to the two of them and skin-heat and sweat and the liquid squelch of a lotion-slick hand, and Helo embraced this tiny, temporary world, pressing against Apollo, his lips grazing Apollo's jaw. And then he turned his head, and somehow, perhaps driven by lust and instinct, Apollo turned too, and Apollo's lips were beneath his, and they were warm but thin, nothing like hers, which was fine with Helo. He wanted broad shoulders and narrow hips and a stocky, angular body with no softness, no rounded curves -- nothing that would remind him of her.

The kiss was awkward and desperate and tongueless, as if a quick taste would somehow shift what they were doing out of the realm of friendly comfort and into the realm of sex, but it didn't stop Apollo from moaning in to Helo's mouth, or stop Helo from swallowing the sound with eager greed, arousal coiling in his belly. He could feel Apollo's body growing taut against his, could feel Apollo's hips surging rhythmically, foreshadowing release, and he quickened the tempo, fisting Apollo's cock faster and harder, driving him towards that elusive edge.

At last, Apollo reached out, not quite curving his arms around Helo, fingers curling into the folds of Helo's jacket and tugging, and Helo groaned as Apollo's firm thigh was wedged between his legs. He began to rock his hips, seeking relief for the throbbing ache in his own cock, the sweet friction setting off explosions behind his eyelids, and suddenly, he no longer cared about the blurry line between comfort and sex, and he plunged his tongue into Apollo's mouth, claiming and devouring it with desperate hunger.

He half-expected Apollo to fight him off at that, but instead, Apollo clamped one hand on the back of his head, anchoring him in place, sucking Helo's tongue before pushing his own past Helo's lips, demanding entrance. There was a tiny part of his mind still rational enough to send up fervent prayers to the gods that no one, especially not Apollo's guard, walked in. In hindsight, he realized starting this here might not have been the best idea, but frak if he cared, not now, not when he was _right there_ on the verge of exploding, and suddenly Apollo was coming, spilling over his fingers, his cry of release muffled -- thankfully -- by the kiss, and Helo shifted his angle and thrust harder and _there_, yes gods yes there!

They sagged against each other, panting and sticky and sweating, and Helo grinned lazily, feeling more loose-limbed and relaxed than ten rounds with the punching bag had been able to make him feel. "Better?"

Apollo's cheeks turned pink again, but he didn't look away from Helo this time, and he even smiled a little. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Any time," he said with a wink.

He stepped back and bent to retrieve the towel so he could clean his hands, and then he handed it back to Apollo to wipe off with as well before returning to his locker to retrieve his shower supplies and start undressing. Thank gods he hadn't already showered, he thought with amusement, or he'd be changing clothes again.

Apollo dressed swiftly and in silence, but Helo looked up as Apollo left the locker room, just in time to see Apollo glance over his shoulder at Helo, his expression pensive but devoid of any traces of anger or upset. Helo nodded and smiled, and Apollo nodded and lifted his hand in farewell before turning away and striding out without a second look back.

Helo watched him go, wondering if there was a chance they might find relief and release with each other again. Things would still never be okay again, but anything was possible. Even hope.


End file.
